


to fill my mouth with your name

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (which is apparently not a tag what?), Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fellatio, Fingering, Gaby getting exactly what she wants, Masturbation, Mild Power Play, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Sparring, Voyeurism, and then resolved sexual tension, dom-ish Illya, mild restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14804936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: Cohabitation can lead to awkward situations. When Illya accidentally walks in on Gaby taking care of her own needs, he can't make himself walk away. Then he hears something he absolutely can't resist.





	to fill my mouth with your name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turningleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turningleaf/gifts).



> Look! It's NOT Dickinson!
> 
> I stole this title from Paublo Neruda instead! Ode to an Apple. (It's the fruit of sin after all. *snerk*)
> 
> diadema did SO much betawork for me on this (on all but especially this) and I feel I must needs thank her again. 
> 
> And thank you again to MilkShakeKate for inviting me to this party, and Turningleaf for being awesome. 
> 
> This is completely, indulgent, smutty trash, Love, but I hope this hits your tropey sweet spots.

 

 

 

The newly-minted headquarters of the newly-minted intelligence agency, UNCLE, sits beneath a lovely, old brownstone townhouse located somewhere between Midtown and Murray Hill, New York, USA. 

As far as the residents of the area are concerned, there is a dapper, little tailor shop below stairs, Del Floria's, and the upper parts of the house have been converted into “flats.” Three flats, to be precise.

Three young people have moved in recently, all around the same time: two young men and a young woman. They seem decent enough folk; though two of them seem to be  _ foreign _ , they have been good, quiet neighbors. The tall one even helped Mrs. Polker with her groceries the other day when her bag broke open unexpectedly. 

In reality, there is only one flat in the old building: a generous, modern space with an open kitchen and dining area, a well-appointed living room, and three, large bedrooms, each with a private ensuite.  It houses three agents – UNCLE's primary (and currently  _ only _ ) covert team. 

The living quarters are located on the uppermost level of the brownstone. Beneath it, the other floors have been set up for training and, well, training. 

Gaby Teller steps into the largest of the training rooms on Tuesday morning. Her hair is braided back from her face, and she wears loose, soft clothing provided by UNCLE for training: a cotton t-shirt with jersey bottoms that Solo had called “sweatpants.” The ensemble was extremely comfortable, and she had already mentioned several times how she would like to wear it everyday, much to the chagrin of her partners. 

The training room is long and wide, taking up most of this floor. There are mirrors along one wall which stretch from the polished, wood floor to the ceiling, and there is a ballet barre from one end to the other. A nod to her own background. She appreciates the opportunity to reacquaint herself with neglected skills and has spent many hours in here putting her body through some of the old routines. There’s something different about it when the goal is overall health and fitness and not to be the best, to be performance ready at all times. 

She’s not here for that purpose today, and as she steps into the room, she finds the floor is covered in the mats used for martial arts training. Her partner, Illya Kuryakin, is using the ballet barre to stretch his hamstrings, legs so long he’s miles from the barre as he bends over to take hold of his foot and lean into the pose. 

He’s tall and well-built, dressed as she is, large, bare feet flexing on the red floor mats. She watches him for a few moments, taking in his form as he moves through what seems to be a well-rehearsed warmup routine. For all that he is ridiculously tall and claims he can’t dance, there is a stunning grace to his movements: each sweep of arm or leg executed with a precise control that hints at the underlying strength of him. 

Gaby isn’t immune to this, or the way the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the shades warms his handsome face, glints off his golden hair.  It’s a girlish indulgence that she allows herself to look at him like this, think of going to him, touching him, maybe pushing him to the floor and kissing him like she’s been dreaming of doing for months now. There’s a little flip in her chest, and a twist of desire in her belly when he turns to her, blue eyes locking on to hers then sliding down her body in a quick perusal. 

“Ready?” he asks, and for a moment, her mind is caught between that fantasy where she has him pinned to the floor and the reality of why she is here. Because, yes, she is very, very ready, maybe  _ too _ ready to go forward with why she is actually here.

“Of course,” she says, shrugging a shoulder and pushing off the wall. “The real question is, are you?”

Illya huffs out a laugh, but it isn’t quite the scoff she deserves. Yes, she tackled him in Rome, and she still remembers the breadth and heat of him between her thighs, but with the things she’s seen him do since then, she knows it was his fear of hurting her that had allowed it. 

Instead of pointing this out as he moves closer, he says, “Keep working as hard as you have been and soon that will be real threat.”

Something inside her preens at that, but she keeps it at bay. He doesn’t need to know how he affects her or how deeply she feels the desire to please him. It’s a weakness she cannot afford. 

“Don’t you dare go easy on me,” she says as she steps into the room. 

He raises an eyebrow. “I would not dream of it.”

An hour later, she is regretting her words as she rolls across the mats. They are some protection from the hard floor, but not enough to keep from bruising. She pushes up on her elbows and glares at him. The thing that burns her most is that she knows, even in this, he is still being careful with her. She has seen him and their other partner, Napoleon Solo, throw each other around this room before. There is a dent in one of the walls the shape of Solo’s back. 

She’s distracted from thinking of it when Illya strides forward, swiping a hand through the air. “I am taller, I am stronger, I have longer reach,” Illya insists. “You cannot come at me like a wild cat. You must use your head.”

Gaby growls and pushes to her feet. As soon as she’s steady, he comes at her again. She feints and manages to get inside his reach. Raising her leg, she kicks hard and fast, but even as she lets loose, she knows that she’s held back, not wanting to hurt him, and it’s going to cost her. 

Her foot bounces off Illya’s flexed stomach, and he catches it, yanking her in and restraining her against the firm length of his body. 

“Harder!” he demands. “I’m not going to break.”

“I am kicking you harder!” Gaby spits back, struggling in his grip. He squeezes tighter to show her how fully she is restrained. He has one of her legs lifted, the rest of her is pressing rather intimately against his thigh. 

“This is all those legs are capable of?” he asks, then tsks, shaking his head. 

She scowls, and he pushes her away, sending her to the mats again, but this time she rolls right back up to her feet and into a fighting stance. 

“Yes,” Illya growls, and it shoots through her body, the ring of pride that fills his voice, even as he stalks toward her again. He makes a long-armed swing for her, and she dodges, coming inside his attack space and jabbing two quick, hard punches to his ribs. He grunts and makes another grab for her. Gaby manages to sweep his leg, but they go down together. Illya gains the upper hand again, rolling them over and stretching out on top, pinning her hands above her head. She’s heaving for breath and frustrated by her mistake, but it isn’t enough to distract her from the way their bodies are aligned, the way he’s heavy between her thighs, or the thoughts the position immediately bring to her mind.

“I told you not let me get you on the ground,” he reprimands and she bites back on a curse.

She tries to twist out from beneath him the way he had shown her in other lessons, but he has all his weight resting on her hips and the motion just succeeds in rubbing her crotch against the line of his stomach. Already sensitized and wet, the friction is almost too much, and she’s worried he will see the evidence of his effect on her when he pulls away. Still, she looks back at him with a flexed jaw and a set chin. 

Illya looks at her face for a moment, his gaze drifting down to her lips — and Gott that is not helping things. The look is brief, then he is moving away, standing to his feet and offering her a hand of assistance. There’s an air of concession to it and the idea stings a little. She doesn’t accept it, rolling over and pushing up to stand on her own. 

“Are you giving up on me?” she asks sharply, and he flinches. 

“No.” Firm voice, no hesitation. 

“Perhaps it is pointless,” she sighs, wiping sweat from her forehead. “To think I could take on someone three times my size. Stop them. Bring them down. It’s ridiculous.”

“ _ No _ ,” he says again, even more resolute. “You can do this.” Though they are spoken softly, his words ring with his confidence. So rare, his confidence, yet he invests it in her. “It is only a matter of practice, training, strategy.”

“What if they are smarter than me?” she looks at him over her shoulder and catches him shaking his head. 

“Doubtful,” he says, dropping his voice a little deeper. “Most men my size depend on their leverage and strength to win. Already, you will take them down.”

“Then why are we doing this?” she asks, turning to him with arms crossed over her chest. 

Illya takes a few steps forward and bends to look her in the face. “You will settle for this?” he asks, something knowing in his voice. “To be ‘good enough?’ Do you not want to beat  _ me _ ?”

It’s a flare of competitiveness as well as arousal that floods her veins, mixed with that thing that Illya always does to her, catch her by surprise with how well he knows her, how capable he finds her. She takes a step back and looks at him, her eyes a little wary, but not of him physically, no… that’s not where he is a danger to her. 

“Get ready to lose to a girl, Kuryakin,” she says with a small grin, falling back into her fighting stance. 

“I am looking forward to it.”

☙

Illya is usually first to bed and first to rise in their little, thrown-together household. Up with the sun every morning to run, to push his body and clear his mind for the day, but that isn’t what has him up roaming the halls at this hour. 

Instead, he had awoken out of a deep sleep sometime ago, his mind spinning. He had listened for any unusual sounds in the shared apartment but there was nothing there to raise an alarm. After trying for some time to quiet his thoughts and fall back to sleep, he’d surrendered, climbing from his bed and pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms to quietly make his way to the kitchen for a cup of the tea. 

Since he has a very strict rule about food in his bedroom, he had consumed it there, sitting alone at the dining table in the dim glow of the light over the stove. 

As he had let the herbal infusion – some combination of herbs Waverly had left for Gaby – sooth his system, he had let his mind go over all the things which had him up in the middle of the night, not the least of which was the woman who’s door he is staring at right now. 

Solo’s door had been wide open when he’d passed, the room dark and empty, indicating that he is still out on the town, perhaps with his current ‘regular girl,’ but a line of light shown beneath Gaby’s door and that had brought Illya’s quiet steps to a halt. 

Gaby was usually the last to bed, her insomnia and night owl tendencies keeping her up well past Solo on most nights and always past a reasonable hour in Illya’s opinion. Still, by this time she was usually at least trying to sleep, though he knew she wasn’t always successful. 

As he stands in the hallway looking at the light beneath her door, he wonders if he should check on her. Just a quick check in to be sure she is alright.  _ No lectures, nothing meddlesome _ , he reasons with himself. 

He shakes his head. He is man enough to admit that he is willing to risk an intrusion for any opportunity to talk to her, to be in her presence. He thinks of their sparring earlier that day and takes a slow breath. If there was ever any proof of the lengths to which he would go to spend time with her, it was those training sessions. The constant physical contact that challenged every ounce of his discipline. The fire in her eyes as she came at him. The feel of her body in his arms, pinned beneath his. He was lucky everytime they finished a session without him developing a debilitating and humiliating erection.

Moving forward, he raises his hand to give a little knock, test the waters, perhaps, then thinks better of it. Perhaps she had fallen asleep with her light on. If that was the case, he should not risk waking her up.

Opening his fist, he lets it hover above the warm, dark wood, thinking of her and his rising feelings. The way he is falling and can’t seem to stop. The way that sometimes... sometimes he thinks she might also think of him in some way other than just a partner.

He sets his hand on her door, intending only to pause, be that much closer to her before moving on, but it isn’t fully latched and gives way beneath the weight of his hand. He steps back immediately, looking worried. Moving slowly and loath to disturb her, he reaches in to take the knob and pull it shut completely.

That is when he hears the moan.

It is a deep, groaning sound that cuts off oddly at the end, and all he can think is that she is sick, and it is the light from her bathroom that he saw beneath the door.

He pushes the door further open, needing to check on her, help her if he can, and it swings silently inward on well-oiled hinges. He takes two steps inside, scanning the room for her, then stops, frozen by what he sees.

Gaby is obviously  _ not _ sick.

Instead, she is stretched out on her bed completely naked. The shaft of light that spills over her is indeed from her ensuite, and it falls like a rectangular spotlight between her spread thighs where her hand plays lightly. Her head is tipped back, her chin pointed at the ceiling, as her other hand toys with her small breast, squeezing the swell of soft flesh and pulling at the nipple in turn.

For a moment, Illya is too stunned for his brain to even fully register what he is seeing. His body is  _ not _ . He is instantly hard, his cock swelling and throbbing between his legs as it rises up to full, zealous attention.

Then, he drags in a wild breath and starts to pull back. He... he  _ should not be here _ . He should not be seeing this! But no matter how much that part of his mind shouts at him, he cannot draw his eyes away from the vision of her. She makes another hoarse little sound, and a bolt of heat blazes through him. He  _ feels _ that sound in his belly, in his balls, at the base of his spine.

Gaby’s hand between her thighs has not settled into any defined rhythm. Her long, capable fingers are lightly teasing her folds — and _Боже правый!_ — she is soaked, her pussy glistening in the golden light from the bathroom. Illya’s gaze is transfixed on those fingers as they dip just lightly into her entrance and then flutter back up, spreading all that wetness around. He bites his lip to keep from making a needy sound of his own, his teeth sinking in with a stinging pain that does nothing to awaken him from this fever dream.

There’s a little hum as Gaby tugs her nipple again, then she sighs. Finally, she is finished teasing herself and she lets her fingers settle on her clit. It is swollen and slick, visible to him, nestled there in her soft, dark curls, until her fingers hide it from view, drawing one, slow circle around it, then two quick ones. She shoves her hand into her hair, turning her head to the side, her eyes squeezed shut as she bites her lip.

Illya almost gasps at the sight of her face, flushed and lost in pleasure. His body jerks slightly, arousal, hot and dark, shakes him, burning up the inside of his thighs and settling in his balls, making them ache.

Gaby opens her eyes, and he flinches, worried she will see him, but the room is dark but for that shaft of light from her bathroom. So too is the hallway behind him, and of all the shadows, he is in the deepest ones. A lurker, a spy, a  _ voyeur _ , taking something that he should not because he cannot resist. He is weak... he is  _ so _ weak, and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid his eyes upon.

Her hair is spread out over her pillow, dark against the white linen, and she tosses her head, making a little whimper as her pleasure builds. She bucks her hips, and his respond instinctively, wanting to match her, meet her. The hand in her hair drags down her chest and joins the other between her legs as she widens them, giving herself more room to work, and he is going to die. This is going to kill him, he knows this. There is already nothing left of him.

The new fingers open her up to the touch of her own fingers, and she sets up a quick pace, two drawing circles on her clit and the labia that flow out from it, precious, pink folds that spread and taper down around her center. Illya swallows, his throat tight and parched as he watches a bead of arousal escape from inside her and roll down the inner curve of her buttock.

His cock bobs, as if it needs to cross the room, fill that empty space. Surely it needs to be filled? Surely she  _ wants _ that?

As if she can read his thoughts, Gaby’s hand drifts down, one hand still working her clit, and slips a finger inside herself. Illya’s soft moan is covered by one from Gaby, and it’s almost too much. His knees quaver, and a hand hovers toward his cock, wanting to relieve some of the ache, but he can’t do that, he  _ can’t _ , so he squeezes his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself.

Gaby whimpers, and it’s that rough voice of hers, that little catch that he hears every day – when she exerts herself in training, when she takes a fall, when she jabs out a strike – but never like  _ this _ . It sounds like she’s worn herself out with shouting. 

He closes his eyes a moment, absorbing that sound, but opens them quickly not wanting to miss any part of what is happening on the bed. He should not be here, but he is committed now. In for a penny as they say — he couldn’t leave if he wanted to.

Another agile finger joins the first, and this time, she pushes them deep, lifting her hips to meet them as she clenches her jaw – to keep herself quiet, he imagines. She tosses her head on the pillow, hips pulsing up as she fucks herself with her fingers. The sweet torment on her face is even more delicious than the sight of those nimble fingers, moving faster, deeper, rushed in a wild, desperate need to come.

Her mouth falls open, and for a moment, they are both suspended there on the edge, and then she murders him,  _ destroys _ him with one, simple series of sounds. They fall from her lips, restrained but passionate.

_ “Illya, Illya, Illya...” _

He sees the orgasm move through her, rolling up and over her body as she whimpers his name, and he is moving before any other thought even enters his head. He  _ has _ to move, he has to touch her, kiss her,  _ take _ her.

Her body collapses as the orgasm recedes, and she is panting, sweaty and flushed, the back of one hand pressed to her forehead as she gasps for breath. The bed dips with the weight of him climbing on to it, and she whips her head around and jumps at the sight of him.

“Illya!” It’s said louder this time, but it still calls back to the earlier sounds, stabbing desire deep.

She may never be able to say his name again without that memory coming to his mind. It will be rather inconvenient, some random part of him thinks, but the thought is barely acknowledged as he leans toward her, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

“What — what are you doing here?” A shocked exclamation more than a demand. Her eyes are wide, staring at him as her cheeks go red.

“You called me,” he says, and his voice is dragging through gravel, low and rough. He grabs her, pushing his fingers into her soft hair and cupping the back of her head as he pulls her to him. His mouth closes over hers before she can say another word. She gasps in surprise, but he swallows it, kissing her hard. She's too stunned to respond at first, her lips slack beneath his, and then she’s latching onto him, nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder as she presses in, kissing him back.

It’s savage and wanton, lips bruising, teeth clashing and then he grips her hair, tugging her head back slightly, and her mouth falls open. He pushes his tongue inside to taste her properly. He dominates the kiss, his other arm coming around to secure her, bring her in closer, tighter, her sweet, little breasts crushing against his chest.

She takes hold of the back of his head, nails scratching at his scalp as she tries to push back, take some control, but he doesn’t relent, licking into her mouth over and over, releasing her only to draw in breath, to shift and take her mouth from another angle. She moans, and he drinks it in, giving a long, resonant groan back to her in return.

He moves, rising up with her body clasped to his, and lays her down, still cradling her head as he settles his body between her thighs, pinning her at the hips with his torso. He drags his hands over her shoulders and then cups her cheeks as he continues to kiss her: deep, hard, hungry kisses that make him dizzy with needing her. She is still slick where she is pressed against his stomach, and his mind is spinning with the knowledge that she’d gotten that way while  _ thinking of him _ . Gaby’s body flexes, her hips trying to roll against him, seeking friction, and he groans into her mouth, all but lost.

When he finally leaves her mouth, it’s to kiss beneath her jaw, to suck and lick at the supple, perfumed skin of her throat where she smells like soap, warmth and  _ Gaby _ . He moans into it, sucking ardently, just shy of leaving a bruise. He wants to, wants to mark her, but he holds himself back for her sake.

“Oh my  _ God _ , Illya,” Gaby says now that her mouth is free. She’s still holding his head, keeping him close, not pushing him away, and each moment that she does, he grows more and more encouraged. “What is happening?”

He’s moving further down now, kissing her collarbones, dipping the tip of his tongue into the hollow between them. Gaby makes an eager, whimpering sound as she tips her head back to give him better access.

“I am here to help you with your problem,” he says, and it’s more of a growl than a statement, voice so deep he hopes she can still hear him, hopes she can feel it as he hums it into her skin.

“What–” she gasps as he laves across her chest with his wide tongue, licking the salt from her skin.  _ Боже _ , she tastes good. He can’t wait to taste her  _ everywhere _ . Her hands tighten, looking for hair to grip, but there’s nothing there to hold onto. 

“What problem would that be?” she manages, and he loves it, loves that they are still talking, bantering when they are like this. It’s more real. It’s still them. He hums as he presses a kiss between her breasts, smiling against her skin.

“You need more hands,” he answers, cupping both her breasts, squeezing them carefully, listening, watching for the pressure she likes. He looks up, and she is watching him back, lower lip between her teeth. He tugs at one of the nipples, and she cries out, her head falling back. “Not to mention–” his mouth finishes the statement for him, closing over her breast, sucking it deep and rolling the nipple with the back of his tongue.

Gaby’s head is swimming.  _ Is this really happening? _ She had been thinking of Illya, imagining him above her, and suddenly, he was there. As if she had summoned him. Had she? She thought she had been quiet, but had she called out instead, loud enough to wake him and bring him to her like this? And now his hot mouth is tugging at her breast, tongue toying with one peak, then the other as one of his huge hands slides beneath her to grip her ass, squeezing her tightly, restraining her and keeping her from rolling her hips. She fights it for a moment, but he is unrelenting. When she tries to dislodge him with her legs, he scrapes his teeth over her nipple and gives it a little bite.

It’s not pain, but shocking, sharp pleasure that jolts through her, and she grunts with it, tossing her head and twisting beneath him.

In all her fantasies, she had never imagined him quite like  _ this! _ She had thought she would be the one pressing and pulling this from him, drawing him out to the point where he could no longer resist. She’d never imagined him taking control this way, pinning her to the bed, teasing her as he gave her pleasure. She realizes now that she should have. This was Illya. This was  _ them _ .

His mouth leaves her breasts and journeys downward, kissing across her ribs, licking her navel. His hands take its place though, rolling her nipples and squeezing in turn, just how she likes it, only it’s so much better with him. His hands touch so much more of her skin at once.

As he slides down, the breadth of his chest opens her up wider, pressing her thighs back into the mattress. Thank god she’s kept herself flexible, because she wouldn’t stop him even if it did hurt. His chest hair is dragging over her sensitized, intimate flesh, and it’s a whole new sensation she had never even thought to imagine before.

Then he is between her thighs, holding her open for his hungry gaze and she feels herself flush. Her legs try to close instinctively, and he looks up at her, his blue eyes dozy but attentive, asking the question. But she doesn’t want him to stop. Doesn’t want him to stop touching or _ looking _ either, so she takes a breath and releases it, relaxing into his hold. 

He keeps his eyes on her face as he kisses the tender skin of her inner thigh, then his gaze falls back to her pussy, and she watches his face as he surveys her most private place. He is taking pleasure from this, and she finds she cannot deny him. Though there is a certain level of self-consciousness from her position, when he runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, she feels his pleasure return to her, sending the heat of arousal through her veins. Her body responds and he observes it, groaning softly, his head tilting to the side.

“Illya,” she hisses, seeing that look. He’s going to kill her. She tries to roll her hips, but still he restrains her. “Stop  _ teasing _ me.”

“You  _ like _ the teasing,” he says darkly, and god his voice is like an entirely new touch, a rumble of vibration that fills her ears and soothes even as it stimulates.

“I  _ don’t,” _ she insists, bucking against him, but his grip is immovable.

He releases her with one hand and drags a finger, first down the crease of her thigh, then up her slit, a light caress that sends her whole body into overdrive.

“I have all the evidence I need right here,” he says, holding up his finger, and she’s going to  _ kill _ him, arrogant piece of — then he puts that finger in his mouth, closing his eyes as he sucks the taste of her off, and she’s gasping, her belly clenching as desire spears through, hot and sharp.

She knows she must be giving him plenty of evidence now. She waits for him to comment, prepared to argue back that it was her own ministrations that got her this way, but it would be a lie. It was him even then, her desire for him, her thoughts of his mouth, his hands, his body. Calling on every ounce of memory to recreate him in her mind.

Maybe she still is, she thinks, as his breath ghosts over her folds. Then, he’s pushing a finger into her, and for a moment, all thoughts flee.

“ _ Ach du Scheiße! _ ” Gaby cries, clutching his head again as she tries to buck into that press. His finger is so much thicker than hers, but her body is well-prepared and accepts him easily.

“ _ Gaby _ ,” she hears him groan her name, and she whimpers as his finger withdraws. “Gaby, I…”

“Don’t stop,” she cries, “Oh god, please don’t stop.” It seems to be exactly what he needs to hear, because that finger slides back in, and she moans at the feel of it. “ _ Yeeeeee–s _ .” It’s a long sigh that ends on a hitch, and she’s almost embarrassed by how weak she sounds.

That finger, slick with her, slides out and then in again, deeper this time, and she knows the sound she makes then is utterly wanton. She searches Illya, waiting for him to tease her, call her out on it, but when she looks, she finds only an answering image of lust, one that mirrors hers. His face is pressed half into her thigh, his mouth open as he watches her body accept his finger. He looks up at her and adds a second, biting his lip as her mouth falls open in a silent cry.

His fingers, god, his fingers are broad, thick and they stretch her just enough to tease her senses. How long has it been since she’s been filled like this, since she’s wanted anyone enough to allow them to be this close, let alone trusted them?

His fingers invade her with long, slow strokes that make her shiver and burn. His breath drifts over her heated flesh, and she whimpers. She tries to buck again, roll into that thrust, but still he holds her down. She growls and whines and lifts up to look down at him.

“Illya–AH!” she gasps as those fingers scissor inside. It’s torment, it feels so fucking good, but it will take her ages to come this way, and she has never been good with patience. “Illya, give me your mouth,” she demands, and he looks up from the pulse of his fingers and then drags his teeth over her inner thigh before nipping the tender flesh. That flash of sharp-edged pleasure, that tiny pinch of pain to go with the ecstasy his fingers bring, makes her jolt, her mouth falling open again.

Illya’s eyes are dark on her as he licks where he had bitten. “ _ Boss mich nicht an _ ,” he orders, and it rolls through her.  _ Do not boss me. _ He has taken control, and her belly clenches at the thought. Gott, she wants it, but she can’t bring herself to surrender easily. Lifting her chin defiantly, she tries again to fuck his fingers, but his grip on her holds, shifting to pull her even further open. 

He grins then, and in any other circumstance it might be frightening, but his fingers curl inside her, brushing over something hot and sensitive, and she cries out in surprise at first, then wanton enthusiasm as she falls back to the bed. He does it again, and her back arches, her hands falling from his head to twist in the sheets.

Illya watches her flail in his hold, thrilled at the pleasure he’s giving her. His cock is so hard that it is killing him, but he won’t relent. Not yet. He pushes his fingertips to Gaby’s g-spot and groans at the way her body reacts. Leaning in, he moves his mouth to the soft skin where her thigh meets her pelvis and latches on, sucking hard at her skin. Gaby gasps.

_ “Illya!” _ she tries to admonish, but his name in her mouth only urges him on. He doesn’t release her until there is a dark bruise. She will see it, only her, and she’ll have to think of him. He ruts against the bed at the thought, but forces himself to still.

He watches his fingers slide from Gaby’s body, slick with her, and he bites his lip. Her body is open, wet and ready, but he needs to taste her properly. Finally, he ducks his head and lashes his tongue over her clit. Her flavor, salty sweet, bursts over his tongue, and he groans as her body jerks under the new, added sensation.

Illya’s tongue is hot and wide, spreading over her folds, over the flesh that he has worked so hard to heighten in sensitivity. Gaby’s voice is hoarse as she responds, throaty, needy cries and broken whimpers as he devours her, his tongue alternating between blunt figure eights and fluttering licks that she’s sure will be the death of her. His fingers are still deep inside her, and with each stroke of those blunt digits, each pulse of his broad tongue, she is pushed further into delirium.

Gaby fists a hand in her hair as she thrashes on her pillow. Pleasure builds like a wildfire, blazing out from her hips, over her skin, igniting her bones. Then it consumes her, and she arcs off the bed screaming his name, the last syllable carrying off on a long, drawn out scratch of voice. Her body convulses with her climax, intense flashes and waves that sweep and roll and submerge her until, finally, she is released back to the world, flushed and gutted with gratification.

Illya draws his fingers from her and runs the flat of his tongue around her entrance, causing her to groan and shiver. He swallows her down, making her part of him. Then he kisses her thighs, the hollow of her hip.

Gaby laughs hoarsely as he licks into her navel, and her hand falls to his head, fingers pushing into his hair again. “ _ Mein Gott, unglaublich,” _ she moans,  _ incredible _ , and he continues to kiss his way upward until he is lifting up over her. “What have you done to me?”

He is impossibly hard, pressed into the mattress between her legs, and his balls ache from holding back, but a small, very proud smile pulls at his lips as he looks her over. “Only what you deserve,” he says on a murmur. 

Gaby’s hands come up and take his face tugging him down into a hot, open-mouthed kiss. She slides her tongue into his mouth and bites his lower lip. When she retreats, he cups her cheek. “ _ Wie geht es _ ?”  _ How are you? _

She traces a gaze over his face, touched beyond reason at his use of her language, and then looks into his eyes. “ _ Gut _ ,” she says. “ _ Sehr gut _ .”  _ So very good. _ One of her hands glides down his chest, over his side and over his belly. She can only reach the waist of his pajamas, but the sensation of her fingers playing over his bare skin is like little embers of need, burning him deep. “But, I could be better,” she offers wickedly. He takes her hand and brings it back up to settle on his chest. 

He didn’t plan on this happening. He is relieved she isn’t angry, and he wants to make love to her, have her completely — he’s almost desperate for it — but he doesn’t have any condoms and he won’t risk her with unprotected sex. 

“Illya,” she challenges, shifting against him. He can feel the heat and wet of her on his stomach, and god, it is a lot for his raging body to process. “What are you doing?” It’s a demand. 

“I am not doing anything,” he says. “That is the point.” He tries to move away, but she stops him, wrapping her legs around him to keep him there, and for a moment, they struggle. Illya takes her wrists in his hands and forces them over her head, putting even more of his weight on her, and she struggles in his grip. It is a familiar position and he pulls back enough to see her face. Her eyes flash, but it’s not with anger. Desire is hot in those dark eyes, and it jolts through him. She tries to twist her hips out from under him and the feeling of it makes his whole body throb with wanting her. 

“Stop,” he insists. 

“Or what?” she asks tauntingly. “Will you put me over your knee?” She tries to shove up again and he moves to hold her down, using his height and weight as leverage. Her hands are stretched all the way over her head, and more of his weight is on her than he would normally allow. 

“No,” he says sharply, “I will tie you to this bed.”

She gasps, her eyes widening, and it’s a naked wanting he sees there. He feels it answer inside his own chest. He pictures it then, her pretty wrists tied above her head, perhaps with a red ribbon. He groans and buries his face into her neck, breathing her in. 

“What are you doing to me?” he asks, pushing the words into her skin with his kisses. 

“Only what you deserve,” she says into his hair, and he moans. She takes in a shaky breath, and he feels her ribs expand beneath his, raises up enough to allow her room. 

His gaze falls to her lips before he drags them back to her eyes. Her legs are still wrapped around him, and he feels the tremble in her thighs. “You are going to kill me,” he groans and takes both of her wrists in one hand, reaching behind him with the other to unhook her legs. 

“Don’t leave,” she says softly. “Illya,  _ please… _ ”

He turns back, taking in the sight of her stretched out beneath him. The position of her arms juts out her small breasts, which are peaked with sweet, dark nipples. It elongates her perfect body and shows the lines of her ribs. He pushes up to his knees and looks down at all of her. Strong, flat belly, narrow hips, muscled thighs. “Gavrushka,” he murmurs, running his free hand up her side. 

“Make love to me, Illya,” she demands, and it’s not what he was expecting. To fuck her maybe, since she likes to be crass about these things. His gaze flits, startled, up to her face and he inhales sharply as he sees there tshe means what she has said. 

They are matched in this. He wants very badly to make love to her. 

“I  _ can’t _ ,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment, to the visual stimuli of her, and shakes his head. 

Gaby glances down his body where he knows she can see his cock hanging, thick and hard, inside his bottoms. “I think we both know you  _ can _ ,” she says, licking her lips. She tries to lift her hips up, to touch his body with hers, but again, he has the reach that she cannot match. 

“Stop,” he says again, infusing his voice with all the authority he can muster. He sees the thrill of it go through her, even when she sets her teeth and raises her chin in defiance. It makes his cock throb as he suddenly arrived at the full realization that she  _ likes _ this, she  _ wants _ this. Not just his body but the way he is controlling her. He feels the weight of turmoil. He wants to say, “Another time. Tomorrow, I will come prepared,” but he is afraid that this moment exists inside a bubble, and that tomorrow, he will wake up to find that everything has gone back to before as if this had never happened. He flexes his jaw as he forces his body and his arousal under his control. 

“I do not have protection,” he says, words a little too curt. “And I will not risk you — your life, your career.” He swallows. “Yield.”

There’s a flash in Gaby’s eyes, and she draws back, to the extent she can, and looks up at him in surprise. Did she think he never thought of such things? Then her expression changes, and she smiles. It’s wicked and full of that mischief that always makes him wary, but it is also wide and brings out her dimples, and he has to hold back the urge to kiss them. 

“I will not yield,” she says, wiggling in his grip making him instinctively tighten it. Her breasts jiggle, and it draws his eyes, the sight pushing his fervor closer to the edge. 

Gaby watches that dark shadow of desire pass over Illya’s face, and feels the answering clench in her pussy. She has to admit his resistance had worried her. Once the euphoria of that orgasm had started to fade, the idea that he would leave, that they wouldn’t finish this now that it was started, had scared her. She didn’t know how this was happening, but she wasn’t letting it go, not Illya, nor the surprising way her body was responding to him holding her, even more heighted in this situation than it had been in their sparring matches. If that is all that’s holding him back, she has the solution. 

“I think you will have to tie me to this bed,” she says darkly. “There’s something in my nightstand that will do the job.”

He blinks, draws back, stunned by this turn but just confused enough to follow that clue and reach over to pull open her night stand drawer. She knows there is nothing inside to tie her up with, but what he does find, he lifts out, holding up in the soft light that comes from her bathroom. It’s a strand of condoms, and, for a moment, he just stares at them. 

“Oh,” she says with false innocence, her best attempt at a shrug with him restraining her. “There’s those too.”

Illya looks down at her, his blue eyes wide, his long lashes catching the light, and she looks back, setting her face into an arch expression, despite her completely prone position. “ _ теперь,  ты любишь меня _ ,” she says,  _ now you will make love to me _ . It’s far more order than request.

She watches his face, sees the recognition, the flash of pride, and then the arousal, darkening the blue of his eyes as they sweep over her. He drops the condoms onto the bed beside them and all but falls on top of her, his hand grasping the side of her head to bring her mouth to his. 

His kiss is biting, hard and hungry, and Gaby tries to bring her hands down to hold onto him but he doesn’t release her. Instead he leans back, checks her face. He must see what he was looking for, because he settles his own face into stern lines, readopting his dominant mein. “You are still trying to boss me,” he scolds. “But you are not in charge here, little girl.”

She gasps and tests his grip one more time, then bites her lip looking up into his eyes, her own full of deep, aching  _ want _ . Their eyes lock, and she can see the moment he takes the challenge, accepts the truth of this. She presses her body up into his defiantly, and he tsks, squeezing a little tighter to show her how fully he has her in his hold.

“I really should put you over my knee,” he says before kissing her again. He ducks to the side to suck at her pulse point, and Gaby moans at the heat of his mouth, the thought that he might try to mark her there as well. That would be bad… but god how she wants it.  

“Promises, promises.”

Illya growls and rises up. He gives her wrists a little squeeze to catch her attention. “You will keep these here,” he orders, and his voice is deep, a snap of authority. She finds herself nodding, obedient without thought and then he lets her go. A fresh pulse of blood rushes into her hands, making them warm, even though his grip had not been overly hard before, but she keeps them exactly where he put them, the act of submission striking an unexpected chord of desire.

He slides back off the bed, and she feels a spike of panic. “Where are you going?” she demands. 

Standing at the end of the bed, he gives her a wicked, little smile of his own and pushes his pajama bottoms down over his hips. He is blocking the light, putting the front of him mostly in shadow, and she laments it. She reaches for her bedside lamp and he snarls. 

“Just,” she says and quickly pulls the chain, creating one more point of light to fill her room, then falls back to her pillow. 

Illya points to her hands, which had settled on her belly. “Put them back.”

She is too busy taking him in to question her body’s response to  _ that _ and she slides her hands back into place above her head, her eyes never leaving his form. 

She has seen all of his torso before, broad muscled chest covered with dark, golden hair from collarbone to his sternum where it tapered into a line over gently-defined abs. Now, she can see all of him. Naked, she can see the definition of narrow hips, his oblique line leading down to more golden hair, and his cock standing out thick and proud. It’s big, even in relation to his body, like his hands, like his feet, and it curves back toward his belly with a rosy tip. 

Gaby bites her lip as he crawls onto the bed, grabbing the condoms and rising up to tear one off, settling on his knees between her thighs. Unable to resist, Gaby reaches up to touch him, but he takes her by the wrist, and her eyes dart up to his face. 

“Where is this supposed to be?”

Gaby flexes her hand in his hold, lifting her chin. “I want to touch you.” The way she says it sounds nothing like a request, and he exhales through his nose. He keeps hold of her wrist but his thumb strokes the back of her hand with a gentle touch. It’s probably that and the ache in her chest that enables her to put sincerity into her voice when she adds, “пожалуйста...”  _ Please... _

Using Russian on him is becoming a delightful manipulation, and she is not disappointed this time. He softens immediately at the word and then bites his lip as he brings her hand to his cock, letting her close her fingers around it. A hiss escapes him, and she delights in it, giving pleasure a pleasure of its own. She pulls at the shaft, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, and it weeps, a drop of precum leaking out to drip onto her hand. 

Without thought, she lifts herself up and licks it from him, tasting the salt of it on her tongue. Illya gasps, his hips jerking toward her at the shock of pleasure, and Gaby thrills as she closes her mouth over the satiny tip, sucking at it and rolling it on her tongue. 

Illya chokes on a moan that slides into a whimper, and she gets one more indulgent suck in before he is pulling her off with his hand in her hair, taking enough of it in his fist that it doesn’t hurt. She comes off with a pop, and he huffs out a breath as he tilts her up to look at him. He is panting for breath, his chest expanding and contracting above her. 

“If you keep doing that, I will not be able to make love to you.”

“Why is that?” she asks. It’s an attempt to be coy, but she’s as breathless as he is. He hasn’t removed her hand from his cock though, so she gives him another squeeze, and his eyes snap shut. 

“Because I will come down the back of your throat.” 

The tone is coarse grit, and he is shocked at his own words, she can see it. So is she, but there’s something else too, arousal, white hot, that bolts through her like lightning. 

“ _ Fuck _ , Illya,” she groans and puts her mouth back on him. He doesn’t even resist. 

She pulls at the tip with her mouth again in tender, little sucks and then takes him a bit deeper, chasing the vein on the underside with her tongue. Illya’s fingers tighten in her hair as he lets out the neediest sound she’s ever heard, and it makes her cunt clench almost painfully. The sensation reminds her that she still wants,  _ needs _ to have him inside her, so she pulls back.

“Just,” she licks her lips and looks up to see him watching her with wide eyes, pupils blown. “Tell me when it’s too much but let me, Illya.” She loves how he looks like this, and she wants more. “Позвольте мне сделать это для вас.”  _ Let me do this for you. _

She sees as well as feels the moment he relents, and her heart beats harder in her chest. His fingers loosen in her hair, but she uses the hand he’s not restraining to bring them back, keep them there. 

“Help me,” she says, and he lets out a hushed pulse of Russian curses. She looks up at him and opens her mouth, waiting, wanting to give the control back to him because she has never felt a rush like this before, and there is an odd sort of power in getting him to take it from her. 

She sighs as he brings her head forward and moans as she takes him back into her mouth, bringing an answering one from above. She closes her eyes and concentrates on what she is doing, the taste of him, the texture. She absorbs the sounds he is making into herself, feeling them as her own pleasure. She lays one hand to his thigh for balance and feels the tremble of the muscles beneath his skin.  

Illya releases her wrist and settles his other hand into her hair. He is guiding her head like she wanted, but gently, carefully controlling the depth of the thrust, and her heart does a little flip in her chest, because, of course, he would hold her down for her own pleasure, but never only for his own. What would it take for him to realize that this brings her pleasure too? 

She brings both hands up to his waist to hold him, and she makes her own, deeper strokes, hollowing her cheeks as she retreats and digging her fingertips into the small of his back, dimpling the skin there. Illya is murmuring above her, sometimes holding his breath, and she can feel the tension building in his body. Skimming her hands down to grip his ass, firm and round and perfect in her hands, she takes a breath and holds it, looking up at him as she takes him in as deep as she can. His mouth falls open as his cock slides into her throat, his hands trembling in her hair. Her nose brushes golden curls, and he gasps. For a moment, she worries he didn’t stop her fast enough, but then he is pulling her off him and sitting back on his haunches so he can drag her into his arms. 

Fist still in her hair, he kisses her, but it’s no crushing domination of her mouth. It’s a tender press of his lips to hers, gentle and slow. His tongue does not delve inside this time but tastes the corner of her lips, then pulls the bottom one in to suck at it. Their hearts are pounding, and both of them are slick with sweat, but Gaby relaxes into the quieter moment, letting him have her just as he pleases. When he finally releases her, she opens her eyes to find him watching her.

She’s aching for him even more now and stretches in his embrace, rising up from his lap to lift her arms,  _ en haut _ . His hands glide down to hold her waist, then pull her in to kiss her belly. Gracefully, she pulls away and lays down on the mattress again, raising her arms overhead in the position he had placed her in before and opening her legs to him. She looks up at him with a teasing smile because, for all that this has clearly become more than a game, she likes the play, likes seeing him above her.

Illya exhales, and his nostrils flare as he gazes at her body, and she feels herself respond, knows exactly when he sees it where his eyes have settled between her legs. With a shaking hand, he reaches for the condoms, retrieving them from where he’d dropped them, and tears one off. Gaby watches, anticipation sparking through her as he places it on the head of his cock, pinches the tip and rolls it down.

He bends over her then, bows to kiss her — her lips, her chin, and then lower, kissing her breasts, sucking at her nipples. She whines and shifts but keeps her hands in place.

“Illya, please,” she begs, and this time it’s the genuine article. “I am more than ready.”

He looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “That is for me to decide,” he says, and it thrills even as it taunts her.

He pulls away, and she quails for a moment, then he’s grabbing a pillow and pushing it beneath her. She makes a noise of surprise, and he gives her a little smirk before leaning in to kiss her mouth again. He steals the pillow from beneath her head, and a moment later, her shoulders are flat to the mattress and her hips are bolstered up on the pillows, lifted toward his waiting cock.

She looks up at him, confused by this move at first, until he presses his hips to hers and leans down to brace himself over her. His cock is nestled to her folds and he has to curl forward to kiss her forehead, to nuzzle at her temple. Her Illya is nothing if not a strategist, she thinks, tilting back to reach his mouth, kissing him and smiling into it. The pillows angle her body into the curve of his, so she is not lost beneath the length of him.

Gaby’s kiss is restless and erotic against his lips, and Illya feels it in his bones, even as arousal and need threaten to swamp all his senses. He can feel her heat through the rubber that covers him, and his body begs to be buried inside her.

Pulling back his hips, he reaches between them with one hand, testing, pressing a finger inside her. She mewls and pushes her hips into it, her inner muscles fluttering around the intrusion. He looks up to her face and sees her watching him through half-lidded eyes. He wants to ask her if she is sure, if she really wants this, but her eyes challenge him as she bites her lips and rolls her hips up into the thrust of his finger again.

He withdraws his hand and sucks his finger clean, humming at the taste of her, musky, perfect, not so different from the taste of her skin. Her hands twist in the sheets over her head, and he bites his lip as he takes his cock in hand and guides it to her where he knows she is ready. The head slips just inside, and her mouth falls open, her hands clenching into fists.

“Gaby?” He breathes it, unable to resist the question. This is happening so quickly. Not unexpectedly… no, it has been building between them for a while, but he hadn’t expected  _ this, _ and the fact that it had begun with his uninvited intrusion, has him second-guessing everything that has already happened.

“ _ Yes _ , Illya,” she says, her body rising up as if of its own accord, trying to take more of him. “Yes, I want you inside me. I want  _ you _ . I want  _ this _ .”

It is all he needs to hear. One hand grips her hip and the other reaches up for one of her hands, pulling it into place to twine his fingers with hers, needing that contact. He looks into her eyes, and she doesn’t look away, squeezing his hand as he presses in, a slow, careful stroke, moving forward until her body resists him, even as wet as she is. The sound she makes is carnal, her breath catching. 

“Illya,” she whines. “I’m not going to break.” 

The words bite into him and he trembles then withdraws his cock, gasping at the pleasure of her heat, the twitch of her inner muscles around him.

Gaby’s eyes are locked on his and he can’t look away. Her mouth falls open as he shifts his hips and pushes in again, this time sinking to the hilt. They both groan at the sensation.

Her body holds him impossibly snug, and he can’t think, can’t process any other thought but that he is inside Gaby. Gaby whom he has wanted for so long. Gaby, the woman he loves beyond wisdom, beyond reason, beyond hope.

Though being inside her is more than he has dared to dream of, his body is demanding movement. He tests her readiness with a pulse of his hips, and she whines softly, pulling her lower lip into her mouth, her little, white teeth denting the pink flesh. The hand above her head twists into her hair. “Illya,” she moans. “ _ Gott _ , Illya,  _ mein gott.” _

He arches his back, bends to kiss her, closing his mouth over hers as he withdraws, and pushes in again. She rises up, and his hand clings to the space above her ass, holding her just where he needs her as he drives into her again and then again. Gaby gasps and keens, bucking her hips up into his thrusts until they are moving together in a fevered rhythm that has both of them groaning and pleading with pleasure.

“ _ Gavruska _ ,” Illya breathes. “So perfect.” He gasps for air. “You feel...  _ ahhhh _ ,  _ здорово _ .”

“ _ Illyaaa _ ...” It’s a whimper that tapers off to clenched jaw, then she drags in a breath. “I’m so full,  _ oh god, _ the way you feel inside me!”

Her words are like jet fuel to his already blazing urgency. His climax is building in the base of his spine, behind his balls, even at the back of his skull. He can feel her everywhere, and she had already gotten him so close. He shudders above her and grits his teeth, refusing to give in to the rush, not ready to let go of this moment, not willing to finish until he brings her to orgasm one more time.

The stretch and pulse of Illya’s cock, the weight of his body on hers, sends Gaby into a hazy place of euphoria. Her head is spinning with it, her entire body buzzing. She is lost in bliss. It is more than she ever thought, the  _ feel _ of him, of having him like this. His hand flexes in hers as he moans into her hair, his breath ghosting over her. She is face to face with his chest now, as he presses down closer, and she licks at him, unable to touch him in any other way. She turns her head and closes her eyes, setting her cheek to his skin as he changes angles, and suddenly, everything gets more intense.

She had opened her body up to his in order to complete this coming together and because she wanted it — wanted this moment where he surrounds her as she surrounds him. Wanted to use her body to bring him pleasure, make him come. Wanted the fullness of these precious, fleeting moments when he is hers and hers alone

She hadn’t expected to climax again. She’s never come more than twice in one night, not even with herself at the helm and she knows her own body very well.

But Illya is bigger than anyone else she has been with, and he fills her to such perfection, it’s as if her body has been born again in the onslaught. His thrusts have picked up speed, and he is gliding over places she didn’t even know existed. She strikes her hips against his, calling out as she realizes that her body is climbing that ladder again, reaching for a peak beyond anything she’s known before.

Illya growls her name and arches back, rising up on his knees. He releases her hand to grab her other hip, and she slides it back with the other, without thought or reason, stretching her body out for him.

“ _ Fuck.” _ It’s hushed and sharp, falling from his mouth with a string of Russian she doesn’t know. His eyes are dancing from her face, to her breasts – which bounce with every thrust – to the place where they are joined, pausing there to watch as his cock slides in and out of her. Gaby watches him, just him, the set of his jaw, the line of his mouth as he bites back a moan. She feels her orgasm building, twisting deep inside where Illya’s cock is bottoming out, a place only he has ever reached. The need draws her in, tighter and tighter until it’s impossible to withstand. She shouts his name as it breaks open inside her, eyes locked on him. He looks up to her face, blue eyes full of  _ her, _ and she goes blind with pleasure. Her body convulses, wave after wave of it, and each snap of his hips to hers draws it out, the wide stretch of him filling her, fueling the fire until she’s nothing but ecstasy and light.

Illya falls forward onto her, the heat and clutch of her orgasm pushing him to the edge of his limits. His body screams for release, but he has to be near to her, feel her, and he wraps his arms beneath her, gripping her body as he thrusts into her clenching core.

She’s making little, gasping whimpers, and he turns his body so as not to crush her. Her hands are still over her head, and he buries his nose into her hair. “Touch me, Gaby,” he groans. “I need you to touch me.”

She cries out as she drags her hands down to him, grasping at his head and then sliding down to his shoulders. Her nails bite into his skin and the sting is a blessing, adding to the burn of molten need shooting down his spine. He feels Gaby’s body still shuddering under his, but it’s her voice that sends him over, rasping and lost.

“Illya,” she cries. “ _ Illya, Illya, Illya!” _

His body goes stiff as the climax slices through him, and he tugs her hips to his, holding them there as his cock pulses inside her, the pleasure of it drawn out by the aftershocks that still echo through her body.

“Ga-by,” he answers her on a groan. “ _ GabyGaby…” _

He collapses on her for a second, his mind shattered, then rolls them over, bringing her to rest on his chest. She moans at the feel of him leaving her body, and he wraps his arms around her, still breathless, then pulls her up to kiss the top of her head.

Gaby presses her face into his chest, then nuzzles up to his neck, feeling like little more than a rag doll, boneless and replete and immensely satisfied. She smiles against his skin, a hand skimming his shoulder. He captures it and brings it to his mouth, kissing the hollow of her palm and then gently biting the heel.

She sets it on his cheek and pulls back to look at him, brushing a thumb against his cheek and feeling the stubble there rasp against her calluses.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hello,” he says in return, and she kisses him, pouring into it all the things she feels in the sweet aftermath.

Sometime later, they are curled up in her bed, cleaned up, condom disposed of. Gaby is tucked into his side, and he is drawing little, absent lines on her arm with his finger tip.

“Well,” she says finally. The words that have been rolling around in her mind. Some of them anyway. There have been a lot. “That was…  _ something _ .”

Illya is quiet for a moment too long to be as casual as he tries to sound. “Good something or bad something?”

Gaby laughs softly and shakes her head. “You were there. You couldn’t tell?”

“I–“ He exhales slowly. “That is not– I am  _ sorry _ .”

Gaby frowns at that. Pushes up and pulls back to look at him. “What are you sorry about?” Her stomach twists itself into a knot. Is he taking it back? Does he want to pretend this didn’t happen?

“I was watching you,” he says then, letting his hand fall away, letting her go.

“Watching me?”

Illya’s face goes red, and he looks up at the ceiling instead of her. He tells her about the door, the moan, everything that happened after. Gaby’s eyes go wide, and she puts a hand over her mouth. When Illya looks at her again, he is wary, cautious, braced.

She falls forward, her forehead notching into the hollow of his shoulder. “Oh my  _ God _ .” Illya goes as tense as a high wire, but Gaby just starts laughing.

She’s embarrassed, yes, but also  _ aroused _ a little by the idea. Illya in the dark watching her… overcome when she calls his name. “I thought I had somehow conjured you,” she says softly. “Drew you to me with wanting you so badly.”

Illya relaxes by fractions, a muscle jumping under his cheek. “You... are not angry?”

“Oh, maybe I should be,” she hums, rolling onto her back but still resting her head on him. She takes his wrist and pulls his arm back around her, places his hand on her belly where it practically covers her from hip bone to breast. “Should tell you off for invading my privacy and space.” 

His breath hitches, lifting her head, and she strokes reassuring fingers over his forearm. “But I feel far too good right now,” she says. “Very pleased from the three orgasms you gave me. Hard to be mad in the face of that.” She bites her lip, second-guessing the next part. Then she laces her fingers with his on her stomach and takes the leap. “Especially since it’s exactly what I have been wanting for ages now.”

“Gaby…” she rolls over again to look at him, the vulnerability of it weighing on her. She searches his face, his eyes… what she sees there soothes the anxious thing in her chest. “I have wanted this too. For  _ so long _ .”

“To have wild, amazing sex with me?” she asks, testing.

He gives her a look. “To make love to you,” then he frowns. “but maybe you only want–“ she shuts him up with a kiss, sinking her lips into his for a long moment.

“I want everything,” she says when she pulls back, and his eyes go wide, breath leaving him in a rush.

“Yes,” he breathes, dragging her down so he can kiss her this time. “Everything...  _ So do I _ .”

She kisses him again and his return kiss is full of fire.

Kissing soon leads to other things.

“It is not going to be easy,” he says at some wee hour of the morning.

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.”

☙ 

Napoleon is sitting at the breakfast table the next morning looking far too fresh and dapper for a man who stayed out as late as he did. He looks up at his partners with a wide grin.

“Good morning, Peril.”

Illya ignores him and goes straight to the coffee, pouring two mugs.

Gaby walks in a moment later, much more spry than she ever is this early in the morning. “Mission briefing today,” she says. “I hope we are going somewhere warm.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Illya says, and there is a new softness to his admonition. “We will end up sweating in hot boxes by the end of the week.” He holds out a cup of coffee to her, and she accepts it. Solo watches as they both sit.

“So, Peril,” Solo begins, after taking a sip of his dark coffee. “You didn’t go for your run this morning?”

Illya frowns, stopping in his reach for a danish. “No.”

“Found something else to work your muscles on?” This time his smile is shark-like, and Illya glares at him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I saw your room was empty,” he offers. “And there were some very… interesting noises coming from Gaby’s room this morning.”

Illya’s hand closes over the knife next to his plate, but Gaby puts a stilling hand on him.

“Illya and I are together,” she says. “Sleeping and otherwise. You may as well know, but we would appreciate your discretion outside the three of us.”

Solo turns to her, a bit of the shine rubbed off his teasing. “You’re serious.”

“ _ Very _ ,” Illya says. He still hasn’t let go of the knife.

“Well then,” Solo says, then shakes his head. “That’s a different animal all together. You can depend on me, Gabs. I won’t spill your secret.”

Gaby nods and releases Illya to hold her cup with two hands, raising it to her lips for a very needed sip.

“Not that I can say I  _ blame _ you,” Solo continues. “It looked like a very good time.”

Gaby’s cup freezes midway to her mouth.

“What did you say?” Illya growls.

“I said,” Solo intones, leaning back in his chair and tugging his waistcoat into place. “That it looked like a  _ very good time _ . I mean, I missed the beginning and didn’t really stay until the end, but what I did see looked extremely pleasurable. Two very attractive, fit people enjoying each other. My kind of fun.”

He smiles again, wide and bright. Gaby’s cup clatters on the table top. “You were watching us?”

“Hey, if you don’t want an audience, don’t leave the door open.”

Illya’s face turns red and then goes pale as a ghost. Gaby looks at him, and his eyes drop to his still-empty plate.

“Illya,” Gaby says, her voice sharp like a razor. Illya’s shoulders stiffen but her lashing doesn’t come. Instead she sets her hand on his shoulder, smoothes it down his back. “You may kill him now.”

 

The End 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Double voyeurism! HA!
> 
> Also, don't worry about Solo, I'm sure Illya will only stab him a little.


End file.
